This Game We Play
by theeventualwinner
Summary: As the Siege of Angband takes hold, Mairon and Melkor must find ways to occupy their time. But how far does Mairon dare push his master, and will he like what he finds? (Maedhros Ch5) M for slash; non-con, violence, general debauchery.
1. Chapter 1

This Game We Play

Hands caress his delicate neck, stroking, winding, soft and lascivious as snakes ghosting across his flesh.

Shirtless, clad only in doeskin trousers, shadows flutter over his collarbones, stark against pale white skin. Muscles flex and relax with every shallow breath, slide over the gentle hollows of his ribs, defined like scripture written in the forbidden tongue of angels.

"My lord", he breathes, kneeling before the throne, a mesh of sculpted metal writhing in wraithlike tendrils toward the sky; beautiful, obscene. Flaming torches drip cobalt wax across the floor, casting a dim glow about the room, as shade gnaws macabre at the guttering light.

The hands move slowly upwards, singed grey wandering snow-white tundra. One cups his chin, force his gaze gently towards the fluted ceiling, where velvet drapes and iron metalwork strive for mastery, flint greys crossing midnight black. Obsidian walls stand in silent witness, hung with tattered flags of enemies vanquished, crumpled stars sullen against battle-stained white.

A nail traces from sternum to chin, sending shivers crawling across his skin. Every nerve sparks alive at his master's touch; at once burning and abhorrent and wrong, and yet so deliciously _right_. Something carnal stirs, something base growls its lust, inhaling, unfurling; slavering beast so barely restrained howls in its shackles, straining to the critical point, crisis engine of desire.

One finger traces his jugular, pulse so vividly beating, fluttering through his skin. And he moans, low and quivering through gritted teeth, shudders leaping through vertebrae, lancing through muscle, craving so long repressed but now breaking free.

"My lord, I…"

But his speech is stopped, one slender finger taps his lips, pressing hard enough to hurt. It drags downwards, parting them, a longing breath exhaled, lingering soft and shaking.

One hand moves around his throat now, enveloping, encircling, predator grasping its prey. Bones undulate under flesh, ephemeral shadows dance, such fragile structures so easily destroyed with one swift twist. Tendons ripple through taught muscle, anticipating the vital lunge, the final severing of life so brutal and so perversely welcome. He waits, the moment static.

Infinite.

And he exhales a breath he didn't know he had held, and his eyes flicker upwards, catch his master's stare and hold it, ((_I dare you)), _silver challenges molten gold. And behind those brilliant eyes, something smiles.

Nails dig into his skin, piercing, droplets of blood form like rubies flecked on marble, pure and dark and throbbing crimson. He hisses, gasping breath drawn knife-sharp through a clenched jaw, the pain exquisite, his agony made ecstasy. The sudden intake makes ligaments jump, striking bold under his master's hand.

Blood drips through his master's fingers, slow rivulets of red running warm and pumping, and how he hated it, a part of himself spilled so crass, so un-mourned.

But how he _loved_ it, this cruelty sublime, some part of him trapped deep down inside uncoiling, awakening, and with claws sheathed in lust ripping up through him, unstoppable, unleashed. And he lunges, pushes back against those gripping fingers, every fibre of his being screaming to stop, ((_do it do it do it))_, rising to his feet and he grabs his master, lays impious hands on that which he hold supreme, twining desperate fingers through raven hair, and he kisses him.

Lips meet in devastating war, biting, crushing, his tongue scrapes across his master's teeth. It burns, such reckless passion devours, flames run wild as his master softens, jaw shifting to receive his servant's gift. Like leviathans spurred to devastating battle they fight, tongues twining beautiful and jarring, white-hot heat tearing through his body, amphetamine lust bursting through him. One hand runs down his master's robe, unpicking elegant knots of ebony silk, skimming down his chest. He traces the lines of his abdomen, slim muscles flexing under his fingers, sensuous hip bones sliding his grip ever lower.

He hears a purr, low and feral. And he pauses, unsure, suddenly afraid that he had overstepped the mark, unwary hunter dares the tiger's lair. And he stops, lips still locked against the others', now blistering, now hurting, and he tries to turn, to pull away, but iron hands stop him, gripping his skull with brutal force.

He feels his master shove against him, a maelstrom of passion and greed and chaos overwhelming, consuming, pouring hot and thick down his throat and pulling up his soul. Caught helpless in the ravening he whimpers; his joy turned to pain, vicious and rending, as his master's blinding frothing seething embrace crashes through him. Defenceless he can only whine, deep in the hollow of his throat, an animal keening, raw and breaking, his master tearing through him, wrenching through vein and artery. The dream-fever rages as his body spasms in failing defences, his lines overrun, the mind-soldiers slaughtered; the rout inescapable. His master smiles, driving ever harder, god collides with angel to wreak the inevitable bloodstained consequence, the haemorrhage spewing entropy fatal.

_I want to take you._

_I want to break you._

_Skin you alive and hang you dripping vermilion across the floor._

_My broken angel, whimpering as blood inches over your ribs, scarlet livid on ivory skin and you're shuddering, you twist and writhe; sinews snap divine._

_And then I would seize you, strike home this brutal desire throbbing to its core, you sobbing beneath me as hips roll savage, I force myself inside of you and you take it, and you gasp and you cry but you can do nothing._

_And it can be violent, and it can be twisted, you pinned so tight beneath me, taught muscle straining but you're caught, little lover, you're mine. _

_I will break you, and when you lie shattered across the stones I will remake you. I will stitch you back together, red gore-threads sewing such a fragile spirit, my patchwork servant. Shards of broken love, and lust and hate collide, crushed burning together and forged inseparable, until you don't know, you can't know what to feel, you lose a part of yourself in me, some delicious masochistic war waged upon yourself and you don't even know why. You smash yourself against me, the butterfly's wings so easily shredded, beating frantic as the venom insidious creeps, animal cravings play visceral. _

_You will kneel bloody before my throne, tears falling slowly down those precious cheeks, begging for me to stop. _

_You will plead for mercy at my feet. _

_And I will only grin._

And he pulls back, desperation lends strength to failing muscle. Lips come undone, mottled in red he gasps for air and it tastes like metal. He stumbles, faint, keels over backwards onto the marble floor, black shot through with white. He catches himself hard with his upper arms, partially saving a totally undignified collapse. Panting, he spits blood across the floor, slides his tongue across a livid split in his lower lip, wincing as the sting prickles through his jaw.

His master, smiling sharp and mocking stands, and fear flickers in his eyes. With dread purpose his master descends the throne, iron-shod boots tapping gently on the floor, sending shivers through him with each predatory step.

He starts to rise, clamber ungainly to his feet below his master's sinuous grace, but he feels a nail tap his sternum, pressing him firmly back to the floor, his spine arching slightly against the acutely cold marble. Real terror wells up inside him, and desperately he fights to muzzle it, remain outwardly impassive as his heart hammers its frantic tattoo. A bead of sweat slides icy down his neck, numb paralysis of foreboding dancing through his veins.

His master kneels over him, faint curls of a smirk playing about the corners of his lips. The prey subdued, helpless. He leans forward, golden eyes boring bright into his servant's faded silver, and lightning flashes victorious behind them.

And he smiles.

A sneer of sick triumph, all incisors and snarling lips, he smiles.

"How now, little lover? Are you ready to play?"

* * *

**I do hope you enjoyed this little venture. And for once, it is likely that there will be sequel chapters! Reviews are always treasured, and if there is anything you would like to see; a particular scene, feeling or point of view, in forthcoming Melkor / Mairon slash, do not hesitate to let me know. I strongly believe in audience participation. **

**And we shall see what becomes of poor little Mairon, left in Melkor's unforgiving hands... x**


	2. Chapter 2: A Plaything of Gods

Light filters slowly through the small, high windows, smeared in grime and soot, sending weird shadows crawling across the obsidian floor. The air hangs heavy, stiflingly hot from the glowering braziers bracketed to the walls, wrought iron smouldering in the gloom. Stones scrape bare and polished across the room, unfurnished but for an ornate bed; ivory posts curving into the darkness, black silken sheets glimmering; and an imposing wooden chair, warped carvings grim and glowing malevolent in the firelight.

The silence is broken by a whimper. A noise miniscule, half-swallowed, yet reverberated to shock clarity by the smooth glassy walls. Half suspended, his toes just brush the cold floor, each ankle fettered by thick chains riveted into the floor. Manacles encircle his wrists, biting iron cutting into tender skin, bolted each to a metal ring lost in the vaulted ceiling, swallowed by the lurking darkness. Crucified, he dangles helpless, naked chest stirring with each laboured breath, doeskin trousers sticking tight and sweaty to his legs. His arms scream their protest, muscles cramping and ligature ablaze, taught and strained to breaking point. Knots of agony coil in his shoulders, as each tiny movement jostles stressed tendons, striae stretched beyond discomfort, bolts of pain lancing down his sides with each inhalation. A livid scratch curves across his neck, from jaw to clavicle, as he shifts clotted maroon flakes exposing raw flesh underneath, pink and glistening. Rivulets of dried crimson snake down his chest; such gentle marks of his master's affection.

His master lounges across the chair, one leg draped catlike across its carved, oaken arm. One golden eye flicks open as he lazily appraises his servant. A sickening smile contorts his handsome features, all sneering carnassials and twisted lips, and with languid grace he shifts upright, eyes never leaving his servant's body splayed so beautiful, so tempting before him. A knife lies across his lap; the thin blade of tempered steel flashes cold, distorted mirages flit across its icy veneer. From a leather-wrapped handle it sings, tapering to a wicked point forged in the black smithies of Angband to pierce armour, to rupture organs. Spells of breaking, of unmaking inscribe its length, delicate Tengwar corrupted by foul and secret languages, hoarse whispers of malice. His master grasps the handle, holding the knife left-handed in a fighter's stance; poised, feral. Shadows dance down its length, thrown to frantic motion in the guttering light, dead metal coaxed to life. His master steps forward, a leer distorting his face, the curl of his lip belying something sadistic, and gold burns in those brilliant eyes.

He watches his master, sees the dread blade in his hand, that awful smile. Instantly, he feels his breath quicken, throat constricts as panic floods through him, tendons jumping bold under his skin. He thrashes in his bonds, squirming, desperately trying to twist away, wrench but one wrist free of its biting shackle, find something, anything to cover himself, to protect himself from what is surely coming.

"No, no my lord, please, please don't do this…"

The words pour from his mouth, such a useless mewling plea.

But his master's trap is well laid, the iron clasps vice-like around him, arms pulled taught, exposing him utterly to what merciless designs await. He can only hang, a fresh canvas for the next tapestry of his master's cruelty. And he whimpers, soft and low, freezing still as terror grips him, the tremulous anticipation of pain paralyzing, overwhelming.

Faster than his eye can follow, his master lunges forward. Something primal flinches and he screws his eyes shut, expecting at any moment that slicing piercing breaking agony ((_just get it over with))_, but the flat of the blade merely taps his lips, parting them ever so slightly. It hovers, steel ghosting across his flesh, light but cold, chill puissance screaming from the icy metal. His breath steams ragged across the blade, mottling its shine in short bursts of clouded white. His master smiles, tilts the knife so its tip presses into his upper lip, hard enough to hurt, watches the muscles clench in his jaw as he chokes down his surprise, his fear. The knife drags downwards, over his chin, tracing his jugular, the point teasing the edge of the bloody scratch arching across his neck. He hisses as the sting shoots through him, air drawn sharp through gritted teeth.

The knife plays ever lower, slicing intricate curlicues across his breastbone. White filigree lines bloom in its wake, his blood fleeing capillaries behind its scoring tip, a visceral procession marked pale over his skin. At the base of his sternum its wandering pauses, a sudden moment of horrid anticipation. Then it slowly trails left, circling his pectoral muscle, diameter wide at first but narrowing, spiraling languidly inwards towards his nipple, such an unwilling epicenter. His flesh prickles under its passing, such brutal tenderness exquisite, raw carnality flooding through him, a boiling crush of emotions unleashed.

The blade finds its apex, tip digging sharp and cold into his nipple. A noise indecipherable, caught between a sigh and a moan tears from his lips, and he arcs his head back, hair plastered sweaty across his cheeks. His chest thrusts forward, pressing the knife harder into him. Droplets of blood well under its edge; the realms of pain and pleasure collide.

His master laughs, a deep and throaty chuckle _oh you like this _but moves the knife further down, scoring pink furrows across his flat stomach, curving through the gentle slopes and valleys of his abdomen, muscles flexing and roiling beneath his skin. With his right hand, his master strokes his hip, fingers lingering soft across its swell, toying with the waistband of his trousers, moving one sharp nail in lascivious circles over his pelvis, trailing down his thigh. The knife wanders lower, his muscles tense reflexively as it skates his hips; thrills of delight, of humiliation, of enjoyment, of helplessness crushed together and molded anew, a nameless feeling powerful and bestial races through him.

_You hate this.  
__You love this.  
__You're mine, little lover.  
__I can make you dance, make you sing, make you scream, and you can do nothing.  
__You can only hang there and take it._

His master's hand moves lower, gripping the back of his leg, tight and urgent, forcing him to thrust his hips forward, some small relief from that painful hold. Nails tap his inner thigh, tenderly stroking sensitive skin, sending ripples of arousal running up his spine. The knife's tip catches the lowest point of his abdomen, pushing rigid into his skin, agonizingly balanced between his hip bones, tempted further downwards by their tantalizing slope. And he shivers, desire crawling like insects across his skin.

And he feels his master's hand slide across his groin, slyly stroking, and he whines, wanton lust ripping up through him. He throws his hips forward, grinding hard against his master's palm, face a grimace of drunken abandonment, such flagrant debasement; and a part of him is disgusted, wants to curl up and hide where no one can ever touch him again, but it is drowned in the dark passion throbbing within him, overwhelming, consuming. The need to please, the need to control, the need to be controlled tear through him, and his master sneers, incisors flash predatory as he feels his servant stiffen against his teasing palm, crude desire manifested in flesh. His breath comes quicker now, panting heavy with mounting excitement, and a groan escapes his lips, reckless emotion escaping any semblance of bounds, nothing but the primal beast left slavering below.

His master smiles again, feels his servant's growing arousal, hardness so poorly concealed by trousers now slick with sweat, senses the movements of his hips angling for his touch, taken utterly in the vicious seething sublime throes of temptation, such careless animal abandon.

"_Oh Mairon, when was it that you lost your grace?" _

The abrupt words chill him to the bone, echoes cold and mocking in his ears, and instantly he freezes, blood running suddenly cold within him. And for a split second he remembers, he remembers what he was; once a proud Maia, fair and pure under the dappled light of Valinor but brought now so low, he realizes what he is, what he has become. Trapped in dungeons of his own designs, where gods and demons play their fickle games, perverse desires carved into flesh, drenched in torment and bloodstained ecstasy. Of his own choice he was corrupted, evil strangling all glimmers of purity, tainting everything in ashen grey. And where he sought freedom he was forever enslaved, forever beholden to the sick demands of his master, abhorred and loved, infernal and divine. But he never asked for this.

And swiftly he recoils, hips arching away from his master's agonizing touch, shame flooding through him, loathing grapples with the dying shreds of lust, hounding them like mist driven from the raging fire. And he writhes, arms still clenched immobile in those grasping manacles, but he tries, struggles to rock himself away from his master, stop the terrible climax inexorably building, slow and deliberate and inescapable.

"I don't want this, please, my lord, please I beg of you I can't…I can't do this. Just please, please don't do this to me..."

Time seemed to slow as his master pauses, punctuated only by the dark beating of his heart, rhythm thumping weird and muted through his head. His master regards him, a smug, cloying grin affixed across his face. An eyebrow quirks in comical surprise; lazy and sinister, but molten gold burns livid in his eyes.

"_Come, come, little one. Doubts? Misgivings?"_

His breath stops in his throat.

"_It is much too late for that."_

And with those fatal words still hanging in the air, his master cuts him down, snapping the thick iron chains like they were naught but hollow bones, the sound of rent metal ringing horribly, echoing wild across the walls. He collapses sprawling across the stones, nerves howling as feeling shoots back into his arms, and he whimpers anew at the fresh assault of pain, blazing tendrils seeming to lick beneath his skin. Before he has the chance to rise, his master grabs him, one hand twining through his blonde hair, dragging him bodily across the room, throwing him roughly backwards onto the bed, his hands scrabbling for purchase amongst the silken sheets. He twists, another attempt to rise, but his master flips him over, hands of unyielding steel pushing him mercilessly down, one forcing his head face down into a black pillow, still twisted in his disheveled hair, the other riding the swell of his hips, knife still balanced in slender fingertips. The blade slashes down his left leg, his leather trousers parting under its tip, a raw scratch darting down the length of his thigh, blood seeping through his skin. He moans, shock warring with the last remnants of hot desire still running through his veins. His protesting cries are gagged by the pillow, and he shakes, desperately twisting and bucking beneath his master, some last hopeless stand against the crushing inevitable, futile rebellion so easily stamped out.

It will always be useless in the end.

He feels his trousers ripped off, flung aside, himself suddenly, painfully naked, pinioned under his master. He hears the knife clatter to the floor. His heart races, he knows what is coming, and he writhes again, but it is gentler, less purposeful, pointlessness of resistance numbly setting in. He knows, with dread certainty he knows his master's intent, iron grip forcing him to submit, nails biting into his skin. He feels his master unclasp his own robe, arousal plain, left hand slamming his servant's face and chest further into the bed-sheets, hips raised slightly as his back arcs in reflex, while his right strokes himself harder. He feels his master shift slightly, position himself, and the muscles in his back knot in horrid anticipation, so weak, so deliciously helpless under the raw power of his master.

Time seems to congeal, what gasping breath he can draw heavy, thick, caught in some nightmare viscosity, trying to run but he's stuck, he's trapped. And the monster behind him growls, senses the prey weakening, but it waits, and it watches.

It has all the time in the world.

One hand caresses his neck; the other firmly grasps his hip, pulling him closer.

"_You can scream if you want, little one. No one will hear you. No one's coming to save you. No one will care."_

He shuts his eyes, teeth gritted tight, fingers tense grabbing handfuls of sheets and he waits for the first strike, cold nausea clawing through his innards, shudders coursing through his spine.

"_And this is going to hurt."_

And with that, his master slams his entire length into him, one savage thrust that punches the air from his lungs.

And he screams, pain exploding through him. And he sobs muffled into the pillow, tears rolling down his cheeks as his master slakes his lust, violent and ripping within him. Feared lieutenant he is no more, commander of armies, betrayer of worlds. He is but a toy, something common, something debased, to be used, abused at the whim of a faithless god. Not an angel, not a person, just a thing.

Just a thing for humiliation.

For pain.

Endless, exquisite pain.

* * *

**As promised, Chapter 2 has been delivered, with a third on its merry way. I hope you enjoyed my first real foray into the 'M' ratings, and as always, whether you loved it or hated it, reviews are always cherished.**

**We have only scratched the tip of the iceberg as to what goes on as the Seige of Angband lengthens, and Melkor's patience is running thin... **


	3. Chapter 3: Lessons

This Game We Play: Lessons

The great hall throngs, noise of the amassed denizens bouncing off of the carved pillars. Murmurs, chatter and growls meld into a cacophonous din reverberating from the black marble walls, shreds of sound rising dissonant into the high arching ceiling. In the fading sunset the hall bathes in arterial red, washed in the final embers of the sun sinking bloody behind the mountains.

Jaws gnash, teeth warped and grotesque snap and laugh; ugly, crooked grins split across ruined faces. Limbs of all shapes, sizes, some mangled and deformed, some lithe and deadly tangle with reeking leather and chainmail armour, sweaty and stained from a days combat training. Blade hilts glimmer red in the baleful light, vicious steel scimitars jostle alongside rusted gutting-hooks, riveted crossbow bolts rest in quivers of hide and bone, every crude weapon proudly displayed, splattered in blood and ichor. The crush swells, every soldier, every watchman, every servant of Angband pressed into snarling proximity, cramming into every inch of space. The commanders defend the first few rows, closest to the great iron throne of their master, a sculpted work of fluted metal writhing tortured towards the shadowed ceiling, inset with wrought gold and pale filigrees of ivory. They clear a swathe of space around the throne and its dais, revealing a splintered wooden framework standing grim to its right, sturdy beams of oak scored and flaking along their surfaces, flecked with stains of thick, dark fluid. Chains hang ominous from the upper corners of the stockade, sprayed in the same liquid as the wood, peeling maroon from the broad, heavy links.

Fiery swords force the encroaching rows of soldiers back a few paces, Balrog commanders hulking and fearsome in the gloom. Flames drip from their armour, sizzling in oily, viscous droplets on the floor. The militia mill behind them, squat orcish figures a riotous tumble of diversity, but all glancing towards the throne, all called for the same purpose, all awaiting the same exhibition.

The evening's entertainment.

Suddenly, the great doors of the hall are flung open, riveted metal squealing on rust-worn hinges, and a shadowed figure stands silhouetted against the crimson light. Raven hair frames a handsome face, beneath a crown of sculpted iron set with three blazing gemstones, searing white and dazzling. Golden eyes coolly survey the now silent masses, and they part before him, melting a path from door to throne. He strides forward with lazy confidence, black overcoat snapping in his wake. His servants stand awestruck before him, such dispensable little lives to be spent, to be thrown away. Reaching the base of his dais, his commanders incline their heads in solemn respect before their master; fires subdued, tendrils of flame licking softly along their crafted metal helms, flickering down shining broadswords.

Their master ascends to his throne, one finger tracing along a strand of iron metalwork along its arm, casually regarding the thronging populace before him, standing hushed and so deliciously expectant.

"_Bring him in."_

From the spread of the great doors, two figures appear, one held firmly in the talons of a Balrog chieftain. Clad only in a simple black tunic and leggings, he is dragged forward into the hall, one fiery hand clasped around his upper arm, singeing his sleeve, the other gripping his opposite shoulder. Barefoot he is marched through the ranks of soldiery, hands bound tightly behind his back with thick, coarse rope. Grim he passes through them, face kept carefully impassive, but his heart hammers hard within his chest, cold nausea coils in his stomach. His blonde hair hangs disheveled across his face, plastered with sweat across his cheeks and neck, brushing a livid bruise high on his cheekbone; crisis rose of purpling flesh to mar his usual pallor. He stares bleakly forward, eyes focused on nothing, not daring to look at his master, at his audience; in those piggish, slanting eyes something sick glimmers, some sadistic urge flexes. Sneers curl subtle across horrid faces, perverse anticipation of the revel to come.

He is hauled up the steps, viciously pushed towards his master sitting upon his dread throne. With his hands bound he staggers, balance thrown off kilter, and for one horrifying moment he thinks he might fall, in front of all of these slaves he might fall, but hurriedly he rights himself, standing awkward yet neutral before the throne, the rapid rise and fall of his chest the only outward signs of his nervousness.

His master's eyes catch his own, gold bores into faded silver, and a flicker of a grin twists over his lips _you know why you are here_. His master rises, steps towards him like a predator stalks its prey. One slender finger trails across his collarbone, and he gasps, a gentle touch so craved, yet so abhorrent, sending shudders crawling across his skin. Fingers dig into his shoulder, sudden and piercing, spin him around to face his audience, thousands of glittering eyes watching with glee every move of their lethal dance. He stares at the floor, pulse jumping in his throat, and he hears his master purr:

"_Mairon, Mairon, how could you let this happen? You, my most trusted of servants. _

_I expected better from you._

_It was so simple, Mairon. Observe, detail and report, that was all. Yet ever you overstep your authority. You ordered an attack, and for your arrogance ten of my commanders perished. Ten lives gone, all because you wanted to play your little games. Perhaps now you will understand the cost of losing."_

His master turns to his assembly, golden eyes glowing malevolent, and in a voice mocking yet stern, coy yet commanding entreats:

"_Come now, my _faithful_ servants of Angband, let us taste the price of little Mairon's disobedience. Ten lives lost, ten lashes rewarded. Maybe then your lieutenant may remember to whom his loyalties lie." _

With a nod, two commanders step forward, one seizing him about the shoulders, the other slicing through the rope binding his hands. Together they drag him to the wooden frame, ignoring his faint struggles. They pull his arms roughly apart, stressed muscles howling in protest, and snap his wrists into the biting manacles, pressing hard into tender skin. With one mighty tug, his tunic is ripped off, flung aside, leaving him dangling half-naked before the court, cold air rippling over his skin. His master gestures, and with a flourish a coiled whip is placed in his hand. From a handle of polished bone, knotted thongs of oiled leather spring, thin and menacing, strung with tiny shards of metal at each stinging tip, cruel blades to cleave deep through skin and muscle. His master unfurls it, admiring its length, turning it slowly in his hand, metal slivers glimmering infernal in the blood-soaked light.

He hears his master ready himself behind him, arm raised for the first brutal stroke. The muscles in his back clench in dread anticipation, twisting under his skin. Time seems to congeal, marked only by the wild thumping of his heart, throbbing warped and muted through his head. He stares at the floor, hair falling in a tangled mess over his face, some small mercy shielding him from the brutal gaze of his audience, vicious smiles played across each cruel face; all here to witness his punishment, his humiliation, their feared lieutenant torn apart before them. Shivers run up his spine; they were all assembled, all of them here to revel in his disgrace, to watch him break, like parasites squirming joyous through a festering wound. But he's not going to scream, whatever happens he's not going to scream, he wouldn't give them the pleasure, he's not going to…

_CRACK_

White lines of fire rip across his back, and desperately he forces down the shriek clawing up his throat, moaning choked and ragged through gritted teeth. He writhes, some frantic reflex trying to tear himself away, but the iron manacles grip him tight, and he can only struggle futile in their dread grasp. He hears the first stifled sniggers, tiny ripples of laughter from his savage admirers, shame curling hot inside him, and he fights back the tears that suddenly prick in his eyes. He clamps his jaw shut, stares resolute at the marble floor and…

_CRACK_

Sparkles of light explode across his vision, the impact punching the air from his lungs, hissing through his teeth. His back arcs, and his feet scrabble across the floor, trying to force his trembling legs to remain standing as he staggers, dragging sharply on his wrists as the chains bruise against his skin. And he hears his master croon, voice dripping with bitter tenderness:

"_Oh Mairon, I thought you could take it. I thought you were stronger than this. Would you disappoint me again, little one?"_

And humiliation runs cold within him, and he shuts his eyes, face contorted in a grimace of pain, and he fights so hard to breathe, the air sticking in his throat, pulse fluttering frantic through his veins and he…

_CRACK_

Seven more times he endures, each lash searing across his back, a raw, bloodied mess of flayed skin. Every miniscule movement sends fresh bursts of agony shooting through him, grappling with the hovering blackness at the edges of his vision, threatening to drag him down into merciful unconsciousness. He barely registers his audience; caught enraptured in his performance, eyes fixed on every lash of the whip, every contraction of his muscles sliding pale beneath his skin; tongues lick lascivious across teeth as he gasps, as he whines. Agony defines his universe, radiating in burning tendrils from his ruined back, defines it in brutal strokes and throws him into it, cradled in strands of crude, throbbing pain wrapped strangling around him.

With the final strike, he sags, exhausted body hanging limp in the chains, only his chest stirring faintly with each laboured breath an indication of his being alive. Faintly, as if in a dream, he feels rivulets of blood inching down his legs, lukewarm streams tracing down the backs of his thighs, soaking through his leggings. At his master's gesture, the two commanders step forward, swiftly unlocking the manacles about his wrists, and he collapses to the cold floor, slick with droplets of his own blood, and he whimpers, waves of pain crashing through him anew. The audience chuckles, drinking in his destruction, in each pair of midnight eyes sick joy blazes, transfixed on the spectacle unfolding before them.

Slowly he rises, shakily picking himself up off of the floor, wincing as every movement sends jolts of pain shooting through him. He stands before his master, blood trickling down his legs; a deadly pause in the game of cat and mouse as his master regards him, eyes sly in the failing light. His master steps forward, one slender hand cupping his chin, raising his face until their stares meet, gold drilling into silver.

"_Now, Mairon, have you learned your lesson?" _

And with his master's condescending, biting words something defiant flares in his eyes, last tiny shreds of rebellion showing themselves bold. Instantly, his master recoils, snarl of disgust twisting his features, and backhands him viciously across the face. The sudden impact splits open his lip, sends him spinning across the dais, one hand clasped to his cheek already purpling from the blow. A dread silence settles across the hall, mutters die in hollow throats, all eyes fixed in sadistic surprise towards the stage. He freezes, hand still resting on his throbbing cheek, and for one terrible moment he knows, with dread certainty he knows he has overstepped the mark, challenged his master one hurdle too far. It stops the breath in his lungs; quivering anticipation looming over him, paralysis of foreboding squeezing so tight, hurting more than the whip's lash ever could.

His master walks over to where he stands, still calm, still collected, but something burns livid in his eyes, and his words cut down to the bone.

"_It seems you still need a lesson in humility, my servant. I would be happy to oblige, to… further your education."_

The black overcoat is shrugged off, falling to a crumpled heap on the floor. Clad in a black shirt and trousers closed with ornate gold filigree, his master stands imposing before him; majestic and terrible, a god of rage and desire and obsidian glory.

He toys with the lacing of his trousers, fingers teasing the silken threads resting between his hips. And he looks at his servant, black lust smouldering in his gaze, and smiles.

"_Ah, Mairon, how lucky are you to have such an audience? After all, you have such a flair for theatrics. Now, get on your knees."_

And for a second he hesitates, failing to grasp his master's meaning, confusion flickering over his face.

"_On. Your. Knees."_

He sinks slowly to the floor before his master, knees hitting the cold marble lacquer, creeping horror of the intent forming obscene in his mind. Trembling with degradation, he looks pleading up at his master, standing so powerful over him.

"Please don't. Please, please my lord, not here, not in front of them; I'm sorry, I didn't mean to…just please don't do this. And I will do anything you want of me, _anything,_ but just please, _please_ not here…"

But his wavering speech is stopped, one iron hand gripping his jaw, nails digging hard into his cheeks, bolts of pain lancing from his already raw skin.

"_Get on with it."_

With shaking fingers he reaches up, slowly unlacing his master's trousers, feeling his master already stiff beneath the soft leather; and a hot flush of embarrassment runs up his neck, pink blush mottling his pale skin. The first sniggers break throughout the crowd, half-stifled chuckles from smirking mouths echo in quiet susurrus, but in his ears it's like they were screaming, ringing hollow as humiliation floods through him, clawing through every vein, every artery, dripping from the wounds across his back to pool on the floor beneath his knees.

He shuts his eyes, one shuddering breath inhaled as he steels what brittle resolve he has, and he parts his lips for his master. He runs his tongue from the base of his shaft to its tip, slowly bobbing his head up and down his master's length. From above him he hears a smug sigh, and he grabs his master hard around the backs of his thighs, gripping him in some nameless desperation, as shame and horror wage savage war within him.

With a growl his master thrusts his hips forward, pushing himself hard down his throat, and he gags, struggles to propel himself backwards, freeing his airway. But his master's hands hold his head firm, fingers twined unyielding through his blonde hair, pressing him further down his length, until his nose almost touches the flat, lean muscles of his master's abdomen. He chokes again, thin ribbons of saliva dripping from his lips, but his master ignores him, pushes him down, roughly forcing his shaft further down his servant's throat with each shove. He moans, still struggling in his master's grip, snatching what small gulps of air he can as he master withdraws slightly, only to slam violently forward again. Ripples of half-smothered laughter spread amongst the crowd, such abhorrent delight at their lieutenant's humiliation, subjugated totally before their fell gaze. All eyes fix on his bleeding back, their master's hands wound so tightly through his hair, standing triumphant as he continues to thrust savagely forward, ramming his shaft hard in brutal rhythm as his lieutenant writhes beneath him with each gagging impact; nothing but a toy to be used, to be abused.

Their master surveys the room with a grin; a snarl of hunger, of something dark and salacious and twisted, and his golden eyes gleam demonic. He chuckles deep and low in his throat, and like a dam burst under the pressure of the river his servants howl; jeering, raucous laughter exploding across the hall.

Their mockery rings shrill in his ears, and to his horror he feels hot tears begin to run down his cheeks, marks of his shame tracing silver lines across his aching jaw. And he wants to run, to run away and hide where no one can ever hurt him again, where no one would ever find him, he could curl up with his misery and they would all just leave him alone; but his master's hands grip his skull, slamming himself roughly down his throat, muscles in his master's abdomen clenching with each roll of his hips as he neared climax.

With one final thrust his master comes, hot seed spurting down his throat, dripping thick and white from his lips. One hand twisted in his hair, his master pushes him away, throws him discarded down on the marble floor. Pain racks through him as his back arcs, splattering droplets of fresh blood across the stones. He reaches one shaking hand to his lips, tears shining on his cheeks, retching as his master's taste lingers across his tongue, and hears his efforts rewarded. Cackling, hysterical laughter stabs through him, every denizen of Angband rocked with evil mirth cracked across their ugly faces; ripping their pleasure from his failure, his humiliation. And for one horrible, crushing moment that seemed to last an eternity he drowns beneath the weight of his disgrace; spluttering like a gutted fish left forgotten and dying on the floor.

Slowly he staggers to his knees again, sitting small and defeated as the wave of brutal noise smashes unstoppable down around him. Hardly daring to look up at his master already composed and smirking from the iron throne, in a quavering voice barely audible amidst the ravening he whispers the fatal question:

"Why?"

"_Why what, little one?"_

"Why do you do this to me? Why do you make me do these things? Do you…do you hate me that much?"

"_Hate you? Oh Mairon, no, nothing so spiteful._

_I do it because I love you."_

And the words punch through him, stopping the breath in his lungs. His master doesn't know, he doesn't understand, ((you couldn't ever understand)) not hate, not hate but love; cruel warped violent broken love bleeding out across the floor.

((That makes it so much worse.))


	4. Chapter 4: Demons

He sprints down the corridor, footsteps echoing wildly across the black lacquered walls. His heart hammers in his chest, its frantic tattoo pulsing through his veins. Clad only in a simple black tunic and leggings hurriedly thrown on, blonde hair still damp and plastered across his cheeks and neck from a bath so painfully interrupted, he cares not for the spectacle he presents running barefoot through Angband's upper levels, tearing through the groups of surprised servants attending their duties throughout the fortress.

((Please be all right, please, _please_, you can't you can't be…))

He bursts into his master's chambers, throwing open the heavy iron doors sent squealing on their hinges. He sees his master prone on the bed, lying limp, half-covered by the silken sheets, raven hair a tangled mess spilling across the pillows. An attendant bends over him, obscuring him from total view, hands hurriedly moving over his master's bare torso, face knotted in concentration and worry; the light of a single flaming torch flickering above the bedposts. Lingering in the doorway his throat tightens, and as if in a dream he moves slowly to his master's side, creeping horror of dread unfurling in cold tendrils through his chest. And as he steps around the attendant, revealing his master fully, his breath stops in his lungs.

Livid wounds curve over his master's abdomen, one hewing across his stomach, the other cleaved through the right of his chest, its edges raw and glistening, skin unzipped to expose the striated muscle beneath. The attendant quickly stitches the gash, black threads knitted neatly through torn flesh, moving rapidly to work on the wound across his stomach, less deep but wider, uglier; clots of flesh dangling ragged at its gaping edges. As if caught in some fatal daydream he can only stare, chill paralysis of panic, of helplessness flooding through him, and weirdly languid his gaze flows to his master's face, a bloody scratch lancing across his cheekbone where the talons of that cursed eagle had torn. Mercifully his master is unconscious, the shallow rise and fall of his chest the only indication of his being alive, but he burns with fever; golden eyes roaming lost under his closed eyelids, hair sticking to his pale forehead with a sickly sheen of sweat.

The attendant finishes his stitching, and from a pouch pulls a vial of foul smelling ointment, smearing the thick green paste over his master's wounds. As it touches his skin, his master moans, stirring weakly as it burns across his wounds, before fading into stillness once more. In shock clarity his gaze fixes on the attendant's hands; flecked with gore, streaks of crimson dashing up his arms, vermilion congealed on his knuckles. Standing at the bedside, dismay twists cold in his stomach and for a second he feels that he might faint, sitting down hard in a chair thrown to the corner of the room, scraping it across the stones to his master's side.

Holding his head in shaking hands, in a hoarse whisper he bids the attendant leave, as he struggles to swallow the rapid tremors of his breath caught painfully in his throat. He hears the doors click shut, and slowly he masters himself, brushing his hair back from his face with trembling fingers. Staring down at his master's maimed form, the shuddering rise and fall of his naked chest in that moment so pale, so vulnerable, he knows he will wait. In silent requiem he will wait, like the graven image of some guardian angel watching over his master as he sleeps. If nothing else, if he couldn't save him, if he could do nothing but witness the bitter, broken end; then this last task he would perform.

And as he sits listening to his master's faint breath he remembers, those moments only hours ago etched in stark clarity in his mind. He had run, once more sprinting through the dark stone corridors to his master's armoury, ripped open the doors to find his master arrayed for battle. Spiked pauldrons glinted over clinking chainmail, a reinforced cuirass rested across his chest, its obsidian surface wrought with a filigree of golden runes, spells of strength and swiftness foundered in the dread furnaces of Angband. Clad in midnight splendour his master stood, mailed fingers wrapped around the hilt of his dread war-hammer, an iron mace of blackened steel to crunch through bone and sinew, rupture organs; chaos and despair with such a crude weapon wrought, and his golden eyes glittered feral above it.

He strode across the room, heedless of decorum, planting himself firmly before his master, his own armour silver and bright against the swathe of black.

"You cannot do this."

Surprise flickered in those iridescent eyes, his master taken aback at his boldness, at his force, but softly he purrs:

"_Mairon you forget yourself. Do not presume to command me.  
If this elf, this fool, seeks to challenge my strength, let him. He will smash himself upon my iron; spill his blood across my earth as I throttle the life from him, as I grind it from his bones.  
__Are you so craven, Mairon? Are you so weak?  
__Do you doubt me so?"_

"Please, my lord, let me help you, let me come with you at least. You do not have to do this alone."

"_Did you mishear me, my servant? I will face him alone, for what have I to fear? An elf challenges me; the mightiest of the Valar, and you would have me cowering behind my ramparts, sending naught but witless slaves to parley, to sue for peace? _

_I think not."_

And with the final sneering remark, his master stepped forward, such dark confidence brooding in his manner, making to push past his servant standing so defiant in his path. But his path is stopped, one pale hand suddenly resting against his breastplate. With some nameless sorrow, dread foreboding ringing deep within him he touched his master, fingers lingering on the cold iron plate of his cuirass. Curlicues of metalwork ran in golden mirror of the veins dancing under his skin; tinged in delicate blues across his knuckles, stirring with the faint flexion of his tendons from each slight movement. And he shut his eyes, forcing down the tears welling up inside them, as crushing apprehension swells in his chest, and he dared not look up, dared not look into those fathomless golden eyes, in frustration and futile despair pushing harder against his master, with a voice low and trembling he could only ask:

"Please don't go."

At his whisper he felt his master soften, move back slightly from the pressure of his fingers, and he exhaled a breath he didn't know he had held; and for one horrible, beautiful moment that hovered infinite before him he waited for the terrible reply to come.

And he felt his master's lips brush against his own. Softly at first, gentle lover's embrace as tender skin met light and tremulous, but through his fingertips still resting on his master's breastplate he felt his master shaking, and whether with passion or fear or some terrible mingling of the two he could not know. But at his master's touch something wild flared within him, white-hot and burning and ripping up through his throat, twisted desperation blazing bold, and he pushed hard against his master, tongue sliding across his teeth. And he felt his master's lips fully part, shifting his jaw to receive this last hopeless gift, their tongues twining desperate and savage and raw together. Lips met in biting, crushing kisses; such reckless passion aflame yet tinged with bitter sorrow. And so hard he fought to lose himself; be swallowed up in the moment and never let it end, never let him go, he would just stay there forever, in timeless lands they would wander and they could be safe. They could be free.

But in sudden motion his master broke away, head snapping back quick and decisive. Wordlessly, he turned, picking up his hammer and striding from the room, leaving nothing but ringing silence and shadows in his wake. And his lieutenant standing so forlorn, so alone.

He could only stand there as the world fell down around him.

The sound of his master's whimper jolts him from his reverie. A soft moan echoes in the hollow of his master's throat, tendons jumping bold under the translucent skin of his neck. He leans forward in his chair, silver eyes intently watching his master shift uncomfortably on the bed, faint tremors of a dream reaching its tendrils into the waking world. His master stirs again, eyes still clasped tightly shut, jostling the angry red wounds scored across his chest.

Uncertain, he hovers over his master, tensed by his bedside; ready to leap forward and do whatever he could, anything he could to help, but beneath his gaze his master slowly relaxes, softly slipping further back into the pillows, clenched muscles in his neck unknotting, his breath steadying. He sinks back into the chair with a sigh, blonde hair hanging limp and straggly across his tired face, and gazing gently into the shadows he resumes his silent vigil, lone guardian in the night to watch over his master; lost in dream-webs light yet paralyzing, delicate yet edged in steel.

_And I couldn't move, I couldn't turn, I could only lay there as they did it, as I was defiled, chains gripping so cruelly tight as I howled and I screamed but I could do nothing, that terrible, frustrated scared paralysis exploding as they grasped me. As I was violated. Those fingers pushing mercilessly inside and out, rhythm powerful and guttural and horrible, and then they ripped; one sharp tearing jerk. Blood spattered across the stones and I could only writhe desperate within my bonds as the agony burned through me, caught immobile, the frantic fly in the spider's iron web, every muscle flexed straining under my skin but it useless, I was trapped like a hunted beast and I was all alone with them. ((_All alone with us, little Vala, all alone with us and the games have only just begun_)) But I wouldn't beg, if nothing else some pride I would retain in that, even as they threw me bruised and torn to the cold mocking stones, fresh scarlet seeping over flaking rusted stains, if nothing else I wouldn't beg, I wouldn't plead…_

The quiet shatters as his master whimpers, curling up tightly half-covered by the sheets. Again he leans attentively forward in his chair, dragged from his own dark thoughts, as he watches the tremors rippling through his master's abdomen, vibrating softly through the hollows of his ribs. And deep in his throat his master whines, low and soft and keening, caught in cloying webs of memory from a darker time, a darker past.

And he didn't know, he couldn't know what to do, pressed hard into the chair, his palms sticky with nervous tension as he watches his master squirm; eyes roving sightless under pale lids, handsome face racked with fleeting spasms of pain. Strands of raven hair lie stuck to his forehead, matted and tangled as he shifts, curling over his cheekbones, falling across his eyes. His master moans again, lips peeling apart in a wordless whimper of agony; and he leans forward from his chair, so painfully helpless, and it was all so useless, he couldn't help, he couldn't _do_ _anything_ but watch his master writhe. With a trembling hand; fear, pity, worry, anger all smashed together and churning inside him, he brushes the fallen strands of hair from his master's brow, smoothing them behind his ears, spilling like a slick of midnight tar across the pillows. As his fingers touch his forehead, despite his tenderness, despite his care his master flinches, recoils violently from his touch as if it were filled with venom searing across his skin. Under his fingers his master burns, fever racking through his veins, shuddering in sudden chill as droplets of sweat bead on his skin, glistening dully in the firelight.

It was like something was being wrenched apart inside him, something beating and vital suddenly made void, achingly empty as for a moment he truly fears for his master, lost in dark echoes of his past thrown distorted through the cracked mirror of memory; a thin veneer of forgetting smoothed over and polished; but the demons lurk below.

_Flies crawled through sockets of bone, buzzing, scratching insidious inside my head, bubbling under my skin. And I shook, and I twisted and I tried to claw them out but they wouldn't come; just blood, red golden blood scored out of my veins, spurting crimson flecks across my skin. And I could feel them moving, I knew they were there, crawling behind my eyes and I screamed, all alone in the silence I screamed. I had to see, I had to look, there were spiders crawling up my spine, thick and black, they were tangled through my hair, dropping, scuttling arachnid across the floor into that pool of water spilt across the stones and I struggled, the chains were so heavy ants were dropping from my lips, they squirm on the floor, chitin gleaming black in the corpse-light but I turned and I looked, frantically peeling back my eyelids squeezed so tightly shut. Maggots gleamed fat and white; they gnawed through my irises, writhing livid against the pink flesh, white sclera flecked with arterial red and as I opened my eyes they fell, they fell like wriggling foetid tears down my cheeks and I screamed and I screamed and they were slick with blood and viscera and squirmed in such joyous, sickening motion and I couldn't move, I was trapped and_

His master screams, eyes flickering half open, roving unseeing across the shadowed ceiling. He tosses on the bed, curling uneasily; muscles sliding taught and strained under his burning skin, sinuous and distorted as nightmares flew on dark bleeding wings within him. He whined again, the quavering whimper of a dying beast forgotten in the rain, the dreadful sound echoing throughout the room. And from his chair he could only watch, eyes transfixed in cold horror at his master's torment, guilt and helplessness coiling in the pit of his stomach as he stares. And his master twists, writhing hard against imagined bonds, hands scrabbling in some dream-panic towards his eyes, fingers clawing sightless at his face as his head shakes frantically, as if to dislodge some scurrying insect. And with a voice whimpering and pleading and half-swallowed in nightmare desperation he screams, screams a name to the shadows like the frightened cry of a child.

"_Mairon!"_

And for a second he freezes, paused above his master, face frozen in concern, the sound of his name like a knife blade through him, sliding cold through muscle, grating against bone. But in sudden, vicious response instinct blazes within him, and swiftly he reaches out, grabs his master's hand still scrabbling at his face, and he holds it, in both hands he holds it like something sacred. Grasped in desperate prayer ((I wish I could save you)) his slender fingers twined through his master's, that hopeless grip of reassurance that was all he could do. And in some dream-fever reflex his master pulls him closer, strong muscles in his arm locking rigid, the final grip of a drowning soul on something solid, something real; tight and urgent and wrenching.

_Orifices stretched, ripped raw and bloody. An embrace of slime, tongues lapping chill with the dank fluid of the drowned, coughed from phlegmatic lungs, noisome smears of decay; slippery, clammy death stops my lips. Wet panting like a sick dog exhaled down my throat, forced so wide open by his hand, our tongues slide; mine retreating, recoiling, but ever his grasps, the death god, worms deeper and deeper until he's dragging up bile and still he pushed, reeking of salt and blood and stagnant water; cloying and insidious and I retch, and he throws me down to the floor like a beast. And I feel his pollution reaching down my throat, cold tentacles unfurling, writhing, and they corrupt and they devour; hot spirit choked in dank oblivion. Drowned beneath the weight of the clamorous, silent dead; rank water pouring over pale lips, knotted with weeds and tinkling little bones, effluvia of the oceans dredged up from punctured lungs. And I spat, and I retched and I cursed but I couldn't move, I couldn't turn away, chains tight and strangling, and I suffered every brutal thrust, every rotten tongue, the slow cold thrust of his hips, crushed beneath his soulless weight, his hands gripping my arms so tight, mottled purple bruises blooming beneath his fingertips. And as he did it he wanted to break me, from the inside out devour; shards of jagged soul splintered like knife blades under his grip; they rip out of the bone, spew ruin in their wake, peeling back muscle exposed raw and tender and glistening, rend through fabrics of skin; splitting open in gouts of blood pouring from my fingers, dripping from my lips and I drown in the crimson waters of his soul._

And his master writhes, flexing in horrible fluid motion on the bed, covers tangled through his legs as he curls, as he shifts. He cries out again; a forlorn wail of despair, of something broken, raw and keening, and he gulps for air like he was drowning but still asleep he lies, breath coming fast and hard through a clenched jaw. From above he looks down upon his master, at his face twisted in such pain; the tiny creases around his lips cracked and welling with blood, the wavering shadows around his eyes like gaunt hollows. An errant lock of hair trails lost across his forehead, stark in midnight clarity against the sickly pallor of his master's skin. And it was something so simple, so small and pointless and insignificant but inside he felt like he was breaking, a fierce well of emotion punching through him, and he closes his eyes, jaw set tight; his master still gripping his hand, a tiny anchor against the nightmare flood. Again his master cries out, lips parted in agony as spasms rack through his body. He feels his master's pulse beating frantic through his veins, ricocheting in cold panic through flesh and bone, through the barriers of their skin to push desperately against his fingers, and it races, hammering hard and feverish; and in that moment ringing infinite in his head, he makes up his mind.

For a moment the boundary of master and servant dissolves, shatters, and instinctively he knows it is pure. It is right. He shifts, not breaking his master's panicked grip on his hand, twisting out of the chair and onto the bed. He arranges himself carefully to lie on his side, body crooked tenderly around his master's curled form. His chin rests against his master's burning forehead, his breath stirring some lone strands of his master's hair to gently dance in the firelight. And in some dream-fever reflex his master senses his presence, his closeness. For a worried second he stiffens, wary of some rebuke, to be pushed away helpless and cold like before: just another servant, just another slave. But his master softens, through the fevered sheen of delirium finding his warmth, and like a child his master curls against him; face pressed into the cotton of his tunic, gently resting against his chest; instinctively feeling the soft beating of his heart, the faint humming of his breath, seeking the warmth of his skin to chase the shadows away.

And he holds his master in return, arms wrapping softly across his shoulders, cradling him in soft embrace until the demons fade away. Gradually he feels his master's shudders calm, taught muscles relaxing beneath his skin, and his breathing comes softer, the deep rhythm of rest, of calm restored, held safe there in his arms.

Like a silhouette etched in dust and pain he would stay. As the world crumbled to pieces around them, blurred away in the void of time, still he would not leave, he would not go, not again ((never again)). He would hold his master forever, wrapped so tightly in his arms, and no one would ever touch him, no one would ever hurt him again. He would wait in the eternal silence, darkness seeping in from the flowing seasons, frost and sunlight ever tinged with growing despair. But still he would wait, in pain and hope and such exquisite misery, until his master opened those brilliant golden eyes, until he smiled; dappled in the radiance of the silver dawn he would smile, and the sun would leap golden into the sky beneath their gaze, and they would be together again.

Lying there, listening to his master's steady breathing softly rippling through the quiet of the room, it was all he could do to keep from sobbing, playing the moment over and over again, the words echoing in distorted loops inside his head. And he knew it was desperate, he knew it was pointless, a plea to gods he knew wouldn't care, would laugh, would strike him down to the dirt, but he said it anyway, shining tears welling up in his eyes. To the endless void he whispered it, his final prayer, cradling his master there in the gloom, under the lone bracket of flickering firelight.

((May you never be broken again))

* * *

A slightly different feel to this chapter, and a more solemn note to end on, especially compared to the previous part! Like it, love it or hate it; reviews are always treasured.


	5. Chapter 5: An Angel's Duty

Ten days. Ten days his master lay abed, shivering in the grips of dreams ripped from a tremulous, half-buried past. And through it all he was there, a presence near immovable from his master's side, stroking the raven hair from his face as he writhed, applying ointments and tinctures as best he could to his slowly healing wounds, watching as flesh hissed and burned under the viscous pastes, skin sealing together in great bands of knotted scar tissue arching across his master's chest and stomach. His finger traced the livid mark where the eagle's talon had ripped across his master's cheekbone; the festering gash refusing to close, weeping clots of yellowish pus as it tore open again and again as his master moaned, as he thrashed, the dark tendrils of his dreams curling into the waking world.

On the fifth day he pried himself from his master's bedside, the charge of Angband's affairs pressing upon him, as his master lay indisposed. Grimly he surveyed the battle statistics; reports delivered of the soldiers lost, legions of orcs cloven asunder by the shining swords of the Elves, bitter in their brightness. Decades of breeding were destroyed; they must begin anew the slow corruption of Elven flesh. In the black mires beneath the mountains, vile ashes and slag were melded with difficult and arcane crafts to raw muscle, pumped thick and reeking through arteries until the blood curdled, the flesh morphed, becoming something more; warriors of tooth and granite, muscle and stone; twisted but strong. It was all ruined, all laid waste, the damage would take years to repair, and glumly he rested his head in his hands, an annoyed sigh hissing through his teeth as he flicked through the reports. Entire battalions needed re-outfitting, and he delivered the specifications personally, tracking the narrow walkways far beneath the fortress to the foundries. Day and night iron wheels turned, hammers crashed upon anvils in showers of sparking metal, effervescent against the brooding gloom of the forges, their fires channeled from the belly of the mountains where lava moiled in livid waves of molten rock. Gathering his chief weapon-smiths he explained his new designs; modifications to spiked pauldrons, the taper of a broadsword, with some smug pleasure watching their faces hung in rapt attention upon each word.

He accompanied his captains to oversee the damage to the fortress itself, one hand running through his blond hair as he beheld the great rents in the stonework, though whether caused by catapult or mortar he could not tell. The plains of Dor-nu-Fauglith were scarred, the once unbroken expanse of grey rock now pitted with the marks of war, here and there a half-collapsed trebuchet lay in a heap of splintered wood; craters punched into the shale where their own catapults had struck. Smears of blood trailed across the stones where the dead were dragged, the black ichor of the orcs mingling with smudged crimson, their broken bodies now just fuel to feed Angband's ever-devouring fires. The wind screamed across the plain, whipping his hair across his face as his silver eyes squinted against the whirling dust, with a dismayed wince noticing another ruined tower along the battlements, once proud and tall, now just a pile of rubble slid against the walls like a dusty bruise. Another casualty in his master's ruinous war, another problem laid on him to fix.

Finally he came to it, the task he most abhorred, procrastinated for days under the need for his attentions elsewhere, but always it nagged at the back of his mind, stirring there uncomfortably. The task fell to him, no matter what he felt, and he steeled himself, pushing all of his resignations deep down inside, and he did his duty.

((Like a good little servant, a good little slave))

In the dim light of the great hall, he received them. Sitting at the base of his master's dais in a chair of blackened oak, strands of burned wood splayed along its back; he bade them hurry, his fingers tapping against his chair's charred arms as he waited. Chained together by the neck, their hands bound, they shuffled as best they could into the hall, forced before him by the sneering orc guards, occasionally prodding at their quarry with the butt of a barbed whip. Of the eleven elves dragged before him, to his slight relief he recognized none, their features largely obscured by the tattered remains of their clothes, their matted hair, the odd weal or burn lanced across a pale face. Some glared balefully at him, their faces full of hatred, but others stared distantly at the floor or the walls, their eyes vague, cowed already by their brief sojourn in Angband's dungeons.

He surveyed them quickly, his pale eyes flicking over each prisoner, his lip curling with a mixture of disgust and anger, distaste and apprehension, the emotions roiling sickening and unwanted within him. Noting none of any worth, he hurriedly bid the guards be rid of them, sending them to toil within the mines somewhere far beneath his sight, in bondage eternal to his master. In dazed shock the elves were led away, only one finding the bravery within him to struggle, spitting on the floor at his feet, calling him traitor, slave of the darkness, the foul, the betrayer, before a mailed orc fist smashed into his stomach. The blow doubled him over, and another guard viciously backhanded him across the face, spraying blood and broken teeth across the marble.

Impassively he watched as the prisoners left, coolly he let the elf's words slide over him, but his heart thudded hard in his chest.

((So easily I could have been you))

But it was more than petty instincts of self-preservation that dug at him. Little worms of memory gnawed through him until he felt that he might shatter, eaten away from the inside. That elf, his wanton defiance in the face of his oblivion only dragged up memories better left forgotten, of another elf, another prisoner long ago. His fingers clenched upon the arms of his charred throne as the images danced behind his eyes, treading the treacherous paths of memory: the moment where an angel nearly lost his faith.

xxx

They had made the long walk down to the dungeons together, he and his master. His master strode ahead, clad in robes of black and lacquered gold, the pointed crown inset with those infernal gemstones blazing on his brow, casting a pale radiance against the torchlight. He followed a pace back, his footsteps silent behind the iron-shod boots of his master, his plain black tunic and trousers blending into the shadows, crowned only in the glint of his hair against the guttering flame. Outside a solid door his master halted abruptly, turning to face him, and in his golden eyes something sadistic lurked; the dare, the challenge read plain in the smirk that curled across his lips. He watched his master silently, curiosity piqued, but he held his peace, and followed him through the door, the rusted frame flaking under his palms as he brushed past it, staining his fingers in crusted red.

He was no stranger to the pits, the chambers of torment laid beneath the fortress like some obscene labyrinth, but the gloom was oppressive. The cloying stench of blood filled his mouth, sharp and metallic, and he scraped his tongue across his teeth, half in pleasure and in discomfort, the confusing sensation rolling through him. Chains clinked, hanging like iron pendulums from a ceiling clotted in shadow, under-lit by a glowering forge, brands and pokers left sizzling within its red maw. A rough bench at waist height lay in the center of the room, spattered in faded stains. He ran a hand across them, absently picking at a splinter of wood as he looked around, his silver eyes narrow and gleaming, faint thrills of what was to come crawling beneath his skin like little scratching insects, at once pleasant and unsettling. His master settled into a narrow alcove in the wall behind him, a lion clad in sable fur, content to wait until its prey is delivered.

After a short while the door was flung open, a leering orc appearing from the corridor, dragging behind him an exhausted-looking elf, hampered by heavy chains about his neck and wrists, cutting tight into the skin. With a twist, the orc shoved the prisoner into the room, the elf collapsing to his knees with the force. As the elf stumbled, his hair fell across his face, and there could be no mistaking it, ragged and tangled yes, but that flaming mop of copper he would know anywhere; and he glanced at his master in surprise, one eyebrow arched quizzically, and he saw the sly, cruel grin curve across his master's face.

His master nodded to the orc, who promptly seized the elf, refastening the shackles about his wrists to ones hanging from the ceiling, leaving him half-suspended, his feet just resting upon the ground. The elf endured this in puzzling passivity, staring dully at the floor, his face inscrutable. His master then dismissed the orc, who quickly left, his footsteps fading into the distance, leaving only the snap and pop of the firewood to jar against the brooding silence, the minutes trickling slowly by. Still standing by the bench, he faced the elf with the copper hair; but he dared not move, dared not break the silence, leaving that sweet succour for his master, waiting out each heartbeat for the game to begin. And his patience was soon rewarded, his master gliding from across the room to regard the prisoner, one hand toying with a strand of the elf's fiery hair, twisting it around his finger in one slow, lascivious curl.

"_Well, look who we have here," _his master purred, "_another little elf lost a long way from home.  
_

_Oh, but you are not, are you? You are not just any elf." _

And the elf just hung there, staring hard at the floor.

"_What's the matter, Maitimo? Cat got your tongue?" _

The muscles in the elf's jaw clenched as he gritted his teeth, in willful defiance not deigning to respond.

His master slipped behind the elf then, like a predator circling its prey, silent and sure, until with a single sudden tug he ripped off the tattered remains of the elf's shirt, flinging the filthy rag aside. The elf jerked in response, powerless to stop the instinctive flinch that rippled across his torso, left awfully exposed in the claustrophobia of the room, but still the elf was silent, his jaw trembling slightly. Watching from the bench-side, his lips quirked into a smile as grudgingly he admired the elf's resolve, his stubbornness: though despite his outward passivity he could see the shallow rise and fall of his ribcage, stark through his bruise-mottled skin, could almost hear the frantic hammer of his heartbeat. He would see how long the elf lasted. His master could be…persuasive.

"_Well Maitimo, you leave me in a predicament. A son of Fëanor, a son of my enemy, yet how could I refuse one of such honour?"_

His master's voice was low, seductive, and as he spoke he ran his nails across the elf's abdomen, scraping over his skin, little white lines trailing like scars in their wake.

"_But you do not seem to be enjoying my hospitality. Perhaps one could volunteer to improve their lot, hmm? Nothing hard, nothing unreasonable, of course, just some information shared between friends, for the betterment of them both. Shall we give it a try?  
_

_What became of your father? For what purpose did you follow me here to Middle-earth? And where are your brothers, and others of the Noldor?"_

With each question his master dug his fingernails into the elf's sides, eliciting a small wince of pain with each prod, but the elf stoically kept quiet, still staring sullenly at the floor. And his master grinned, sharp and cunning, his eyes glittering as he looked knowingly over at his servant standing by the bench. Subtly, he bit the inside of his cheek to stop the smirk from rolling across his lips, a feral light in kind set ablaze in him; enjoying the show, this theatre of such exquisite cruelty unfurled before him. His master turned back to the prisoner, and with a voice like molten gold murmured:

"_You are not being very co-operative, dear Maitimo. But perhaps I am asking the wrong questions, to the wrong person. _

_Mairon, fetch me his cousin from the cells, the one with the pretty eyes and those dark braids…_

_Káno, isn't it? _

_I think that is what he said, though it was so hard to tell…"_

Something dark and sadistic flared in him at the lie, and grinning maliciously he stepped towards the door, but he had scarcely taken one pace when the elf screamed,

"NO!"

The elf glared fiercely at his master, his head snapping upwards, eyes wide with panic and anger, his breath coming hard and fast from his clenched jaw.

"No! You…you lie! You do not have him."

But the shake in his voice was unmistakable, that tiny tremor of emotion, of sheer strangling panic ringing in his ears all the confession he needed. And he paused, turning to face his master and the elf, choking back the snigger that threatened to rip itself from his lungs, his face contorting into an awkward smirk as he watched.

"_Did you think we did not know? Did you think we could not see what you were doing? Even in the Other Land, the guilt was written plain across your faces. Two young princes having a grab at each other in the dark…"_

The elf flushed then, a dark crimson spreading up his neck, and he shifted uncomfortably in his chains, stifling a whimper as his master traced his finger across the his cheekbone, a mockery of a lover's touch. Slowly, his master's hands ran down the elf's bound body, such a gentle, insidious caress, ghosting across his collarbones, sliding down his sternum. He watched as his master leaned forward, his face held only a breath away from the elf's, their lips almost touching, and he heard his master speak:

_"Did you like it, when he touched you? Did he whisper in your ear, while he ran his hands all over you?"_

And his master's hands flicked across the elf's nipples, the pink little buds hardening under his touch, eliciting a sudden gasp, although of pain or arousal he could not tell.

"_Did he quiver? Did he moan?"_

His master's hands slid further down, brushing over his abdomen to stroke the hollows of his hips, playing sensuously across the waistband of his trousers slung low between them.

"_Or did you?"_

The elf flushed again, his cheeks coloured a ruddy pink, and desperately he tried to rock his hips backwards, arching away from his master's touch, every muscle in his back taught and straining with the effort; but he was pulled up short by the chains, unable to escape those teasing fingers. Despite the gloom, he could see the veins slowly rising between elf's hips, once hidden but now pressing hard from under his pale skin, running from his stiffening groin to disappear under the lean muscle of his abdomen, engorged as the elf's body escaped its bounds. A low moan echoed about the chamber; shame and arousal entwined in equal throbbing measure.

And darkly he smiled, watching his master torment the prisoner, shivering slightly as a twin flash of excitement raced through him, that familiar heat prickling from his core, and subtly he rearranged his stance, shifting his waist to conceal the signs of his own arousal. But his master caught the movement, turning from where the elf hung to face him, wicked laughter shining in his eyes.

With a crook of his finger his master beckoned him closer, bade him run his hands across the elf hanging taught in his chains. His pointed nails traced up the elf's leg, fingers ghosting over the sensitive insides of his thigh, and he smiled as he heard the elf groan, his head tossed back, panting faintly, his trousers stretched tight across his stiffening length.

"No…no please, please don't…"

The elf moaned; but he continued regardless, the mirror of the elf's pleasure radiating up through him, the fires of his passion steadily building. The elf quivered under his fingertips as the minutes crawled by, short pants and mumbled protests falling from his lips as his body betrayed his control, arousal overwhelming his hatred, his fear. And as the elf's hips rolled, he looked up at his master; his silver eyes like pools of dark, churning lust, and his master's set in golden likeness. The unspoken request lay between them, shimmering in their gaze, until his master smiled, nodded; sending thrills of adrenaline sparking through him, igniting with a rush.

Blindingly fast, he reached up, wrenching the chains that bound the elf's hands free of their brackets with one pull; his strength momentarily taking him aback, fuelled beyond expectation by sheer lust, raw and carnal. In one fluid motion he shoved the elf forward, binding his hands tightly behind his back as he fell sprawling across the bench; the elf's chest, stomach and face crushed against the splintered wood, muffling his screams, his protests now made in earnest. Viciously he kicked the elf's legs apart, ignoring his struggles, one hand pressing mercilessly down on his lower back, the other ripping away the shreds of his trousers, leaving him utterly exposed, the muscles of his back and buttocks clenching tight beneath his skin, bracing for the inevitable pain to come.

Pinning the elf in place, he shrugged off his own tunic and trousers, his lithe form glistening with sweat in the glare of the fire, one hand unconsciously grasped around his length, stroking himself harder. He looked at his master, one last lingering glance for permission, and wordlessly his master reached inside his robe, unfastening a hidden pot of some oily substance. He reached up, dipping his fingers inside, then coated himself thoroughly, the oil tingling as it touched his bare flesh, and he hissed as the sensation coursed through him. For a heartbeat he paused, his gaze still locked onto his master's face, his eyes burning bright.

_Do it_

And some part of him knew, some tiny part of him screamed to stop, that he was abasing himself, this was dirty and shameful and wrong but it was drowned in something visceral, something throbbing, and in that moment he just _didn't care_. And he smiled, leaning forward against the elf's squirming back, and he knew it was childish but he couldn't resist that last little bit of venom.

"Just lie there", he smirked, "Lie there and think of Káno."

And swiftly he straightened, grabbing the elf about the hips, bones sliding under his fingers and in one hard, gut-wrenching motion buried himself to the hilt inside the elf; his groan of pleasure and the elf's scream melding into one wordless cry; agony and ecstasy entwined and flayed livid.

Quickly he found his rhythm, pumping mercilessly into the elf pinned below him, each thrust of his hips grinding the elf harder into the bench, the elf's half-swallowed sobs ringing in his ears. One hand was grasped around the elf's pelvis, the other wandered across the contours of his back, stroking the whip marks slashing across his spine, red and weeping beneath his fingers, each touch marked with another little gasp of pain as the elf shook beneath him, desperately bucking with each thrust. As he continued, his master moved in front of the elf, in one sudden motion yanking his head up, one hand twined through his copper hair and the other hooked through the iron collar still fixed around the elf's neck, forcing him to look up into his master's eyes even as he was jerked across the bench with each shove. And softly he heard his master purr, the words dripping like honey from his lips:

"_I would see you break before me. At the hands of your lover you would bleed. I will make him gut you, just to see the look in your eyes. And when he has done it, you peeled open before me; I will give him your heart. And it will drip through his fingers. And the screams will bubble on his lips like kisses. There will be no end for him. No quick death, no merciful silence. And it will be because of you."_

And suddenly the elf went limp beneath him, even as he continued to pump into him, tremors of sheer animal pleasure racing through his body. The elf whimpered, his head still held arched back by his master's grip on his hair, as his master leaned forward, and in a voice laced with millennia of hatred whispered:

"_I will burn down your world and crown you king of its ashes."_

And with a final shudder he came, slamming his hips against the elf as he spurted deep up inside him, gasping as waves of pleasure coursed through his body, a wild grin twisted across his face as the elf sobbed, hot tears of humiliation running down his cheeks.

Swiftly he withdrew, the last beats of orgasm still throbbing through his core as he shrugged back into his clothes. His master looked down at the elf expectantly, sprawled shakily across the bench, but still he said nothing, setting his jaw in one final, grim gesture of defiance as he stared back up at his master. With a growl of fury his master wrenched the elf further up by the hair, with his free hand delivering one vicious slap across the elf's face, splitting open his lip in a spray of blood, then shoving him backwards into his servant's arms, and he staggered in surprise, struggling to catch the elf as he fell.

"_Get him out of my sight. Take this filth and put him somewhere I will never see his face again."_

And without another word his master stalked from the chamber, the door banging shut behind him.

Hurriedly he pushed the elf away from him, suddenly uneasy at his proximity, his very presence sending his skin crawling; disgust melding with faint embarrassment as the elf cringed before him. He grabbed a nearby length of chain, snapping it to the elf's collar, with a sharp tug pulling him towards the door, nearly jerking the elf from his feet as he struggled to keep his balance, difficult with his hands still bound behind him. Up and up they wound through Angband's corridors, the elf stumbling behind him like a whipped dog on a leash, naked and vulnerable under the leering eyes of the soldiery and servants, their jeers, their catcalls crashing down upon him as he was dragged past, and he flinched at every single one. Onto the upper barricades they walked, winding up crumbling, narrow stairways and precarious walkways curving across the mountainside, drawing ever higher above the fortress. The wind howled at them, and he shivered within his tunic, hardly daring to imagine the state of the elf, the wind tearing at his bare flesh.

Finally they reached it, a small iron band set into the rock just above head-height, an old device of his masters long thought forgotten. Quick yet careful, he pushed the elf against the shale wall; his boots crunching on the narrow ledge, wary of the sheer drop inches from where they stood. The elf was nearly numb with the cold, his eyes unfocused and split lip turning blue, offering no resistance when he unbound his hands and remove the collar, only to grab his right wrist and push it into the band. Only as the iron clamped around his wrist did the elf cry out, writhing against it to no avail, his back ripping open against the razor-sharp rocks, spattering them in droplets of dark, steaming blood. Weakly he still tried to pull himself free, but he screamed again as it scraped his skin raw, blood trickling down his arm in crimson rivulets.

He stepped back, coldly appraising the elf caught in his master's trap: pitiful moans of anguish and half-formed pleas torn from the elf's lips by the howling wind, sent scattered across the ashen mountains. The elf slumped against the wall, his weight held by his feet that just touched the ledge beneath him, shining tears creeping down his cheeks from beneath closed eyelids, his chin crinkling as desperately he tried not to cry.

And for a tiny treacherous moment he almost felt sorry, sorry that a son of Fëanor should be so caught in his master's ruthless game, a game he knew all too well, and he opened his mouth to speak, to say something, anything; but then he stopped, he remembered who he was, what he had to do, and he shoved that feeling down, threw it away, and abruptly he turned, walking back along the ledge a wider section of the path.

He looked bleakly back at the elf, and steeling himself, uttered a word of power, then quickly retreated further up the walkway. And a few seconds later, he heard the rumble of sliding rock, the crash as the entire ledge collapsed, the scream as the elf's weight dropped into his one arm caught fast to the stone, left to dangle in an eternity of pain. But he took no pleasure in it, the wild emotions that had burned in him earlier now faded out to a weird emptiness, a lingering sense of uncertainty that he could not shake.

And as he walked, re-tracing his earlier paths, a thought flickered through his mind, some strange, stupid sentiment turning over and over in his head.

((We are alike, you and I. The pieces on the board, the pawns in the game. We are the ones who bleed.))

And he tried to ignore it but it slid under his skin, fluttered in every breath, pounded with every step of his lonely way back to his master's chambers.

((We will always suffer in the end.))

xxx

The guttural speech of an orc servant jolted him from his reverie, still sitting on his blackened throne, the great hall now swathed in shadows coiling eerily across the floor. Angrily he bit back a retort, instead beckoning the orc forward to deliver his message, the beginnings of a headache throbbing in his temples. In the mangled, mongrel tongue of his folk, the orc uttered:

"Lieutenant, our Master has awoken. He wishes to see you. Immediately."

With a sigh he pushed himself from the chair, slipping from the hall like a silent shred of darkness. But before he shut the huge doors, he glanced back at his chair, standing like a twisted, forlorn thing beneath his master's dread throne, and the words rushed back to him again, even as he slammed the doors; striding quickly through the corridors to his master. They echoed through his head like a mantra inescapable, pounding out their doom.

((We will always suffer in the end.))


End file.
